


Five anonymous birthday presents in the life of Clint Barton (and one time he knows exactly who it's from)

by sirona



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe - High School, Birthday Presents, Clint has a protective streak a mile wide, Courtship, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Romance, anonymous gifts, bb in love, clint is nobody's hero, except when he really actually IS, happy endings, mentions of bullying, mentions of underaged kids fighting, mild stalkerish behaviour, no seriously Phil use your words, normality is overrated, questionable wooing methods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 21:38:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically what it says on the tin. Set in high school and first year of college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five anonymous birthday presents in the life of Clint Barton (and one time he knows exactly who it's from)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torakowalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/gifts).



> Written for Torakowalski on the occasion of her birthday, for her prompts: young Clint and Phil, and something birthday-related. I hope so, so much you enjoy this, darling!! <3
> 
> Really, quite enormous amount of gratitude is due to LariaGwyn, who basically rescued this story from the unmitigated disaster that was the first draft. She is _magic_. Massive thanks also to Foxxcub for reading this over and and sharing her thoughts, and to Ine for her insight into policework. All remaining mistakes are most assuredly my own.
> 
> Warning for what could be perceived as stalkerish behaviour. It's not quite at Twilight levels, but I reckon it's definitely there. If this kind of thing puts you off or triggers you, this...might not be the story for you.
> 
> Lastly, I have set Clint's birthday as being in November. I know it technically isn't, and I don't know why the hell I'm so insistent that it ought to be, but...there we are. Also, I have kind of invented a scholarship for Clint. Pennsylvania College of Technology really does have an excellent archery program, but no scholarships for archery that I've found.
> 
> Final warning: this is probably ridiculous. /0\

**1\. 15**

There are cupcakes in his locker. Clint stares at them suspiciously, for long enough that his best friend Natasha's patience finally snaps and she elbows him out of the way to see. Clint winces -- she at least seems to have forgotten about the pummelling he took in that fight last week, when he hadn't managed to stop himself from wading in to help out a kid beset by bullies. He hadn't even known the guy, but he'd been smaller than him and, for all his cocky stance, there had been something about his eyes that had owned up to how scared he'd really been, and Clint? Had never been able to leave well enough alone. His ribs are still sore as hell, but he doesn't let himself grunt in pain like he wants to -- because then Nat's going to look all kinds of guilty, and he hates it when people go and _care_ at him. He never knows how to react.

Nat, luckily, misses all of this, too enthralled by the thirteen perfect little cakes, each of them frosted with a letter, _"HAPPY BIRTHDAY"_ in all the colours of the rainbow.

"Wow," she says, sounding impressed and bewildered and frankly too covetous for Clint's taste. He fights the urge to cuddle the cupcakes to his chest, bare his teeth and hiss, 'mine'. He takes them reverently down from the middle shelf, where they had been propped at his eye level in a tidy cardboard tray. It's the most elaborate thing anyone has ever done for him. 

He still hasn't said a word, because all the words in his head seem to have dried up. Despite his possessive claim, in all honesty, he's wondering if someone hasn't made a mistake and left them in the wrong locker. Their school is _far_ from small; odds are there are at least two other people with the same birthday as him. He looks around curiously, but the hallway is too crammed with people to be able to single out anyone paying him specific attention. 

"Oh, god, they look _so good_ , let me have one," Nat whines, reaching for the tray. At the last second, though, her hand seems to hover in mid-air above it before withdrawing with no explanation at all. She looks at him, eyes surprisingly bright. 

"You know what, on second thought, I don't think I will. They're _your_ cakes."

A funny lump settles in Clint's chest at her words. His. He can't remember the last time something was his alone, not to mention something so beautifully crafted, betraying so much effort. Sure, the edges of the letters are slightly shaky, but fuck, Clint has never looked a gift horse in the mouth. 

"Why?" he croaks in the end. He's sure as hell not questioning Nat's quicksilver mood changes, he just...

Nat shrugs, bumping her shoulder into his. "Maybe someone just wanted to do something nice for you?"

Clint stares at her. "Who?" he demands, ignoring her miniscule flinch at his tone. A truly uncomfortable thought occurs; he's just about to awkwardly stammer his way through asking if it was _her_ , but then she cuffs him on the back of his head, scowling, and the mac-n-cheese incident swims to the forefront of his mind from the depths whence he had banished it in pure self-defence. He remembers that she can't cook for shit, unsure if it's relief or disappointment that spikes in his gut.

"Clint Barton, do we need to have that talk again?" she bites out, and it's his turn to cringe. 

"God, no more pep talks, have mercy, woman," he whimpers. She looks satisfied, and he congratulates himself on a narrow escape from having to talk about his _feelings_ , ugh.

"Hey," she says, suddenly thoughtful. "Maybe it's that boy you saved last week?" Her eyes drift meaningfully down to Clint's side, and Clint realises that Nat never really 'forgets' something, unless it's convenient to pretend to. 

He thinks back to defiant blue eyes, the way the boy had watched him warily, too, until those eyes had widened with the realisation that Clint hadn't been there to weigh in on _their_ side. He smiles a little. Fat chance of him being the person behind this -- he doesn't even know the boy's name, they'd had to make themselves scarce when the fight had broken up 'cause of the teachers bearing down on them -- but oh, Clint can't pretend that it wouldn't have been nice.

He shrugs. "I'm no one's savior, Nat," he says gently, shaking his head at her disbelieving hum. 

He eats the cupcakes in the end, taking as long as he can force himself to savour them -- they still only last two days, because he keeps making excuses to go past his locker and once there, his self-control fails spectacularly. They are _delicious_ , and he only wishes someone would come forward to claim them, own up to the selfless gift that only confuses him and makes him feel the kind of wistful that makes his chest ache. 

Still, the birthday glow from that one lasts for _months_.

 

**2\. 16**

"Hey, you Barton?" 

Clint turns at the sound of his name, shifting to put his back against the wall out of pure muscle memory. It's been months -- nearly a year now, really, since he's felt any kind of threatened here, but old habits die hard, and the guy walking hesitantly towards him isn't someone Clint has seen before. 

"I am," he agrees carefully, wondering what the hell he's just admitted to. 

The guy's rigid stance relaxes a little, though, which is odd enough to pique Clint's interest -- because no one usually looks this pleased to have that fact confirmed to them. He's tall, with a striking face, pouty lips and a shock of dark, gravity-defying hair over his head; his shoulders make Clint swallow in a way that he has only recently begun to place. One of the guy's hands is clenching around the strap of his backpack, while the other keeps alternating between being stuffed in the pocket of his jeans and twitching by his hip.

"Can...I help you?" Clint ventures, intrigued. 

The guy's mouth quirks in the hottest fucking smirk Clint has ever seen, and his hand comes out of his pocket again, tangling itself in the hair on the back of his head. He looks the textbook definition of sheepish; Clint feels instantly, irritatingly disarmed. 

"Phil Coulson said you'd probably be okay with showing me round," he says. "I only just got here yesterday. Name's Bucky. Bucky Barnes."

He holds out a broad hand, which Clint does not hesitate before taking. 

Still.

"Who the hell's Phil Coulson?" Clint mutters, and immediately wants to kick himself when Bucky's face falls. 

"Oh. I--I'm sorry, I assumed he--uh, that you knew him? Look, totally no obligation to do that, man, I'm sure I can find my way around--"

"Dude," Clint cuts in, shoving a hand through his own hair and sending him a smile that feels alarmingly genuine. "It's fine, seriously. I'd be happy to, though I gotta warn you, I'm not the most popular guy in school or anything. Don't know that you'd want your reputation taking a preemptive dive 'cause you're seen hanging out with me. You know, if you're aiming for Prom King or whatever." Which he could _totally_ get, the guy is _hot_.

He's also clearly amused as hell. 

"Look, pal, I don't know what kinda first impression I gave you, but I sure as hell ain't Mister Popular myself. One, I don't know anyone else around here to be any kinda picky, and two, the straight 'n' narrow ain't exactly my type. I got kicked outta my old school for breaking a douchebag's jaw, so."

"Dude," Clint says admiringly. "What'd he do?"

"Wouldn't get the message that 'no' means _'no'_. Taught him the error of his ways," Bucky growls with a vicious satisfaction that makes Clint's heart sing. He finds himself liking this guy more and more. 

Bucky seems to get that, because he stuffs his left hand in his pocket again and grins outright. 

"Right, let's start you off on the grand tour, then," Clint says, grinning back just as bright. 

It's going to be an interesting year, he can tell already.

 

**3\. 17**

This is...not how he'd have chosen to spend his birthday, Clint reflects as he lies on his back over the bench in the jail cell, his head resting on Bucky's thigh while his legs sprawl over Steve's lap. Then again, he could be in worse places, and he _definitely_ could be in worse company.

The bruise over Steve's left eye is livid purple, making Clint wince every time he sees it. The guy would. Not. Quit. You gotta admire balls like that on a dude. He's given up poking at it obsessively and flinching, but only because his hand is no longer free to do it. Clint is determinedly not looking at it clasped soothingly in Bucky's on the bench near Clint's chest, their fingers stroking along each other's. It's the only privacy he can give them, even if they're obviously not bothered about him seeing.

Bucky starts humming something melodic and vaguely familiar, voice husky from all the screaming he'd done earlier, yelling directions at the two of them from under the brutal hold of two assholes pinning him to the asphalt. A fair fight it most certainly had not been. Still, it was either that or letting those douchebags kick the shit out of little Peter Parker. Not one of them regrets their choice, even if it had probably landed them up to their necks in trouble. Clint seems to be making a habit of that. He pushes down slightly hysterical laughter at the thought of being some kind of 'class protector', Buffy-style. He is sure as hell nobody's hero.

"How long d'you reckon they're gonna hold us?" he wonders idly. Three orphans in foster homes are pretty low priority at the best of times, let alone when two of them are former delinquents and the third has a reputation for jumping before looking.

Bucky shrugs, a move Clint feels as Bucky's side rubbing against his head.

"You got any place better to be?" he drawls, and Clint grins wide enough that his barely-healed lip splits open again. God, he _loves_ his friends. He still doesn't know how the fuck he got so lucky to meet first Bucky, then his best friend/insert innuendo here Steve Rogers, who'd transferred to their school in protest over their previous one kicking Bucky out. The three of them and Nat had quickly become inseparable; he knows it's only the fact that Nat had dance lessons on Thursdays that has kept her from landing in here right along with them. Then again, if Nat had been present, they probably wouldn't be in this situation at all -- something she's bound to harp on and on about.

"Naw," Clint says, stretching on the hard bench and settling more comfortably on top of them. "Hey, Steve, you okay, buddy? Sorry about--"

"If you try to apologise to me about standing up for Peter, you and I are gonna end up having words," Steve says in his shockingly deep voice, always startling to hear coming out of such a slight frame. It drowns out Clint's half-mumbled apology well and good, and so does Bucky's fond grunt of "Idiot." Clint subsides, feeling warm and happy and more-or-less content. He's got nothing much to lose, other than the friendship of the four people he cares most about in the world, and that doesn't look to be happening anytime soon.

All three of them look up when the footsteps that had been drawing near stop outside their small cell. Tony Stark stands framed in the bars, mouth smirking but eyes kind and strangely fierce at the same time.

"All right, kids, what've you gotten yourselves into this time?"

The three of them share confused looks before Steve struggles to standing, pushing Clint to sit up as he goes.

"Hey, Tony," he says, hesitant but pleased to see him, like only Steve seems to manage. "What are you doing here?"

Tony shrugs, shrewd eyes running over each of them, assessing the damage. He winces when he gets to Steve's eye.

"Yowza, that's a nice shiner you got there, buddy. Coulson called me, told me to get my ass down here stat, which, let me tell you, I had plans tonight, plans involving a certain lady who is unfortunately in cahoots with Coulson, it seems, because she totally wouldn't let me wait till after dinner."

The name 'Coulson' rings a tiny bell for Clint, but he's never made a point of keeping up with the gossip or in touch with school goings-on outside of class. He probably ought to know who Coulson is, though, because both Steve and Bucky are nodding along -- and shooting him weird sideways looks. He wonders what the hell that's all about.

"How'd he know we were here, anyways?" Bucky asks for all of them, distracting Clint from trying to find out.

Tony scratches the edge of his ridiculous-yet-annoyingly-flattering goatie. "Dunno. Pepper said the kid you saved's his cousin or something, must've called him from the hospital."

Clint straightens at the word, insides freezing. "Hospital?" he manages, all kinds of worst scenarios parading through his head.

Tony holds out both hands in classic 'don't shoot me' mode. "Just for a check-up. You guys got there just in time, he's a little bruised but nothing that won't heal right as rain."

A heavier footfall comes closer, and the three inmates shrink back against the wall as the biggest, tallest one-eyed badass steps up to the bars, stopping at Tony's shoulder as he eyes them up. His swanky, perfectly-tailored black suit alone probably costs like a decade of Clint's allowance.

"Oh, yeah, boys, have you met Mister Nicholas Fury, the Starks' attorney? How's it looking, Nick?"

"Nick" looks like he dearly wishes to bite off Tony's head and chew it until his skull is dust, but he holds himself back somehow. 

"They got nothin'," he says, each sound sharp and professional. "In fact, they're torn on whether to give these three a caution or a commendation. Look sharp, kids."

Bucky and Clint push themselves to standing, too, coming to flank Steve at the cell's bars. Steve stands there at attention, hands clasped behind his back, this five-foot-nothin', scrawny little dude, but he looks Fury dead in the eye without flinching. 

"Thank you, Mister Fury. Thank you very much. We're in your debt."

Clint and Bucky watch as Fury's face, no mistaking it, softens right up. 

"Rogers, right?" he says, one corner of his mouth lifting in an ominous grin. "I've heard a lot about you. Look me up one of these days, reckon you and I should have a chat."

"Sure thing, sir," Steve says politely (and he means it, too, Clint can tell. The _balls_ on that guy). 

The tall, skinny cop on guard duty shuffles over just then, finally unlocking the door to let them go. 

"Hey, thanks, man," Clint says quietly as he passes Tony. "Uh, you too, sir." 

He ignores Fury's unimpressed look out of long practice.

"Don't give it another thought," Tony says easily. He sure as hell isn't one of Clint's friends, not Tony fucking Stark, shoo-in for Prom King and future genius billionaire if Nat is to be believed, even if she sniffs disdainfully when she says it. "Would've done it for anyone with _cojones_ big as yours, Barton, going up against seven skinheads. Put it there."

Clint shakes the offered hand, feeling more confused than ever, head full of the unsettling feeling that he's missing something.

 

**4\. 18**

Not many people know about this place. Fewer even are those who know that Clint tends to run away here, lose himself in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere between shows when the world makes even less sense than usual to him. Carson jokes every now and again about Clint running away and joining them on the road; in his darker moments, Clint actually considers it, even if he knows it's no life living in a circus, always moving, never settling down, never finding peace but for those few moments on stage with a bow in his hand and an arrow on his fingers. 

Clint is an archer, you see. He's a damn _excellent_ archer, at that. For the duration of his time at foster home number three it had been the only thing that kept him sane; really, thank god for Ms Pryce, who must've seen something in the stupid little kid's face as he lurked in the shadows as she'd held out a hand to draw him out into the light. She'd saved him as sure as foster home number four had, even if that barely lasted long enough for Clint to realise that not everyone out there's a grade A asshole. 

Turned out, Clint? Is _badass_ with a bow and arrow. Like, off-the-charts-good. Jaw-droppingly good, as he often sees with a spark of deep-seated satisfaction. Not that he ever expected to get anywhere with it. Archery is not exactly the kind of sport that gets you laid, or one that has colleges queuing up for a piece of you, and Clint is far from Olympics material. Too volatile, too much of a shit to follow orders, ask anyone. He mostly expects to hustle at darts for spare cash on his nights off from whatever dead-end job he ends up getting, once he's out of high school and has no choice but to face the serious lack of options in his future. 

Steve is smart as a whip, he's got the grades to basically go wherever he wants (even if you don't count already being scouted by Mister Fury), and so does Nat. Bucky, well, he's been talking of enlisting non-stop for the past year, he's got his ducks all in a row. Tony, well, it's a damn wonder he's waited around this long before buggering off to MIT to harass all their professors. 

Clint is realistic. He's not smart like the others -- sure, he's excellent at math and physics, but that's -- it just comes easy to him, calculating angles, wind speed, he's been doing it for years and it shows. The rest of his classes, though, he's pretty hopeless at, and so, _so_ not rich enough for that not to matter. Foster parents number six have hearts of fucking gold, seriously, but he can't ask them to pay tuition for him, not when he knows he's just one in a string of many lost kids they're doing their best to help get back on their feet. 

So. 

His fingers flex on the grip of Wanda, his gorgeous baby, the beauty he'd scrimped and saved until he could afford. She fits his palm so sweetly, like she was made just for him, and fuck, she's pretty when she dances to his tune. Draw, aim, release, fetch another arrow, do it again. The rhythm is soothing, empties his head like nothing else, and god, he's eighteen today. He should be out getting wasted with Bucky on Tony's pitch-perfect fake IDs, but here he is instead, terrified to his bones and just as determined to hide it. Seven more months and he'll be out, finished, facing a serious dearth of opportunities for the next fifty years. Sure, his luck seems to have turned somewhat the past few years, but he's going to need a fucking fairy godmother for this miracle to happen.

His rhythm only halts when his fingers find no more arrows in his quiver and the target looks like it's part of some modern art exhibition. Maybe he could sell them to some pretentious assholes, or set up a live art installation and make a mint? "State of Modern Morality" or some such bullshit. Worth a try, right?

A quiet, polite clearing of throat comes from behind him, close to the strongman's caravan. Clint turns to find a shortish, fussy-looking kinda guy with a head of neatly combed hair observe him intently, hands held behind his back. He smiles amiably when he sees Clint looking. 

"Clint Barton, I presume?" he enquires in a perfect Oxford accent. 

Clint nods as if in a dream; he's still not sure he _isn't_ in one, this has got a decided Twin Peaks vibe going on, what with the guy's honest-to-god cardigan and pressed corduroy pants. 

"Charles Xavier," he introduces himself, offering Clint a warm handshake. 

"Hi," Clint says lamely, then waits to see what he's just agreed to this time. 

"I represent Pennsylvania College of Technology," Xavier says, returning his hands to behind his back. "I don't know if you're aware, but we have an excellent archery program, one of the top five in the country, and it just so happens that we are offering a scholarship to exceptional young athletes such as yourself. We'd like to offer you a spot, based on your clearly superb mastery of the sport."

Clint can do little more than blink and gape. He'd never considered, never even imagined--

"But I never applied," he blurts out, because self-sabotage is apparently still a trait he can't shake. 

Mister Xavier smiles. "It seems, Mister Barton, that someone has your best interests at heart. We were contacted by a member of your school council, who suggested we come and assess your skills. Frankly, I consider this as him doing us a favour, rather than the other way around. We are clearly going to be undefeated with you on our side. 

"Of course, you are under no obligation to accept immediately, or even at all," he adds, seeing Clint's shellshocked look. He produces an elegant white and blue business card, which Clint takes numbly. "Sleep on it. Make a list of questions and get in touch with me. I am at your disposal."

"I--I don't know what to say," Clint stammers, feeling young and lost and so desperately, excruciatingly hopeful. 

Mister Xavier's face softens, and he gives Clint a kind smile. "That's okay, lad," he says gently. "I understand that this has come pretty out-of-the-blue for you. Take all the time you need to think about it. Talk to your parents. Talk to your friends. Talk to that boy on the student council, he seems quite invested in your wellbeing. Rummage through our website, we have a lot of programs to interest a bright lad like you -- and here's a prospectus, too."

He hands Clint the heavy booklet he'd been holding, smiles amiably again, and walks away. Clint is left drifting in his wake, fingers clutching the prospectus in a white-knuckled grip as his heart pounds in his chest. Could this -- it's so surreal, he's half-worried it's some elaborate prank being played on him, but to go to _this_ length just to fuck with his head seems like way too much trouble for anyone. His knees shake from the adrenaline dump, and he sits heavily on the smattering of grass, fighting to catch his breath. With a shaking hand, he digs out his cell phone from the front pocket of his jeans and punches the buttons until his call log turns up. 

"Nat? Yeah, I-- Y-yeah, I'm fine. I think. Look, something's happened, can you meet me at Josey's? Yeah, call Bucky. Call Steve, too; hell, call Tony. I think I need help."

She's probably going to kick seven kinds of hell out of him for freaking her the fuck out, when she finds out what this is all about, but Clint can't even help it right now. He needs something solid, something to please, please make this whole thing be real. It's weird and wonderful and too confusing to make sense of by himself. 

He's halfway back into town, mind going a hundred miles a minute, when he stops abruptly three feet from the bus stop he'd been aiming for and narrows his eyes.

"What student council guy?!"

This time, he's determined not to rest until he gets this whole mystery unravelled.

 

**5\. 19**

Clint doesn't usually do this pensive ruminating bullshit, but it _is_ his birthday, and if you can't be maudlin on your birthday, when can you?

These past... hmm, four birthdays now, he's seemed to lead a charmed life, for the day, at least. Almost like... well, almost like there really was a fairy godmother guiding his steps for those few hours every year.

But that was high school, and this is college. College, full of people smarter than him (not that that was a huge change); college, where there was no one pushing him to do better but himself. He's been discovering, over the past month or so, something that probably shouldn't surprise him so much: a drive inside him the likes of which he'd never suspected existed. Probably still wouldn't know about it if it hadn't been for the staggering kindness of that one guy, someone Clint _still_ doesn't even know. There hadn't been a shortage of guys on the student council, and Clint had _not_ been about to go around asking any of them if they'd written to a _college_ for _him_. A college that hadn't even offered an archery scholarship until he'd come along, for all the money they'd been ploughing into their archery club -- he knows, he'd _checked_. And sure, Clint will do his best to repay them, he'll win them every trophy under the sun, easy, but that still doesn't change the fact that they'd taken a chance on a guy like him, no connections he could offer them, just his freakishly good aim.

The nagging inside him is only getting worse. He doesn't like owing people, much less people he doesn't actually know. He scowls down into his coffee, quite aware of how inexcusably moody he's being, yet unable to stop.

"Is this seat taken?" he is asked; he looks up absently, drawn out of his thoughts. It's a nice voice, mild, pleasant. The kind of voice you'd want to listen to for hours, talking or just reading to you before bed. It belongs to a guy around his age -- unobtrusively handsome, dark hair cropped close to his head, shoulders to _die_ for, fucking gorgeous mouth quirked in a lovely smile. Clint can't help smiling back.

"Hi, no, not at all," he blurts, inwardly rolling his eyes at himself. _Smooth, Barton. First time you've seen him and he probably thinks you're a loser already._

The guy doesn't seem put off by his bumbling. He sits down in the chair Clint had helpfully kicked away from the table, placing an enormous cup of coffee and a pastry box on his side of the tabletop. Clint checks it out covetously; they don't sell pastries in this coffee shop, guy must know a bakery nearby. Clint's mind is suddenly whirring at full capacity, trying to come up with ways to entice him to share the knowledge. 

The guy's lips twitch when he sees Clint eyeing his box -- subtle Clint ain't. He takes a sip of his coffee, seems to hesitate a moment, and then flips the lid open.

They are cupcakes. Birthday cupcakes. With the frosted _HAPPY BIRTHDAY_ letters and everything. Clint buries his face in his hands and laughs, and laughs. What is his life anymore?

When the giggle fit has passed, he looks up again, suddenly cringing with apprehension at the look he's likely to find on the guy's face. He's thoroughly surprised to find that not only has the guy not left in disgust, but he's calmly watching Clint, hiding a small smile behind meditative sips of his coffee. He quirks an eyebrow at Clint when he sees him looking, a silent invitation to share the joke.

"Sorry," Clint says immediately, sheepish. "This is so weird. It actually _is_ my birthday today? And I promise that's not a line intended to score one of those," he adds, only fibbing a little, since it's not like he can hide the way he's drooling at the sight of the perfect little cakes sitting pretty in their box. Funny how history repeats itself. 

The guy considers him, then the neat rows of sugary heaven; and then those spectacular shoulders lift in a shrug, and the next second he's pushing the box at Clint.

"Help yourself," he invites.

Now, Clint knows manners; there are even a few he hasn't managed to shake in the course of his misspent youth, but they are _no_ match for the strength of his desire right now. In seconds, he's biting into the lush sweetness of the B, B for Barton (even though it isn't, not really -- it's not like the guy made these for _him_ ), and closing his eyes in bliss as his throat releases a truly x-rated sound of approval at the taste.

"Oh my god," he manages to mumble in between savouring the taste and jonesing for more. "Dude, you _gotta_ tell me where you got those."

The guy hesitates; Clint looks up from licking frosting from his fingers, quite prepared to beg if that's what it takes, only to see his eyes fastened on the spot where Clint's fingers slide in and out of his mouth. _Oh_. Is _that_ how it is? Clint grins widely. This is getting better and better.

Because no one ever accused Clint of not being a giant fucking tease, he makes sure to lick extra-thorough over his index finger while he watches the guy watch him. Oh, yes, _please_. Cupcakes for blowjobs will never not be a fair trade as far as Clint is concerned. (There's a joke somewhere in there about having his cake and eating it, too, but Clint has time enough to make it when he's got the guy panting under him and begging for his mouth. Never let it be said that Clint isn't benevolent in victory.)

Seconds later, the guy startles at nothing at all; narrowed blue eyes rise to meet Clint's dancing gaze, and the guy's cheeks flare an enticing pink even as he attempts to look disapproving. God, Clint can't stop _staring_ \-- and neither, it seems, can his new acquaintance. 

"Thanks," Clint purrs, once he's made sure his fingers are thoroughly clean. "That was _delicious_. Is there anything I can do to convince you to divulge your secret?"

Yeah, uh, what? What did he say? He has never seen a guy flush so bright, not even when Clint had been sucking cock with the kind of precision he normally saves for the range.

"Uh," the guy says, suddenly uncertain. Damn if it isn't just as attractive as the calm assurance from before. "I didn't get them anywhere. I made them. Old family recipe."

Clint goggles at him. "And you were just... carrying them around? Oh, god, please tell me I didn't just ruin some surprise for your girlfriend--boyfriend--whatever," Clint blurts, feeling strangely despondent. 

His own flustered flailing appears to calm the guy down a treat; Clint is only a little worried about the state of his health now, rather than fearing an imminent burst blood vessel, 'cause no one should have that much blood flooding their face, it can't be good for them.

"No, no, everything's going to plan," the guy says absently--and immediately bites his bottom lip, eyes flaring wide in shock. And, okay, so Clint might not be Mister Sharp, but he _can_ put two and two together and reach a few conclusions for himself, _thanks, Nat_.

"Oh, _really_ ," he drawls, sly grin wide enough to show all his teeth. 

The guy makes a frustrated sound, one broad hand coming up to rub at his temples. Clint imagines that hand kneading a roll of dough (or a few other things, _come on_ ), and is suddenly grateful that he wore his loose pants today.

"Jesus, I'm so bad at this," the guy mumbles, clearly embarrassed, and a wave of something warm and sweet glides through Clint's chest, something that feels very much like affection for this stranger who's apparently gone to so much effort for him. He is reminded of the years in school, when the thought of the kindness that one person believed he deserved was the only thing that got him through some days.

"No, hey," he says gently, reaching for the guy's (toned, firm, _nice_ ) arm and drawing his hand away from hiding his face. "Dude, jesus, I'm seriously not worth all that trouble. I mean, don't think I'm not grateful, and flattered as hell, but you coulda just bought me a cup of coffee or something. I'm a cheap date." _For someone like you,_ he doesn't add.

The guy's eyes bore intently into his, as if trying to gauge his sincerity. Clint gives him the most charming smile in his arsenal, enjoying looking into those pretty eyes, and gives him the out the guy's probably wishing for by now. 

"Where'd you learn to bake like that, anyhow?" he asks, surprised to find himself genuinely interested. Guy's got talent, Clint would tell anyone who asks on the strength of that divine cupcake alone.

"The Bakery and Pastry Arts major," the guy says absently, shrewd eyes still lingering on Clint. Clint suddenly realises that his hand is still resting on the guy's arm; he whips it back self-consciously, even if his palm immediately feels as cold as his face feels hot.

"You really don't recognise me at all, do you," the guy says -- states, really. The disappointed note in his voice makes Clint frantically search his memory for any hints it might give up.

Now that he mentions it, there is something vaguely, tantalisingly familiar about the guy, whether it's those worn-blue eyes, the shape of his face -- Clint feels as if he _should_ know him. But--

"Sorry, man, no, I don't," Clint says, truly regretful. He'd have _remembered_ someone like this -- at least, he _hopes_ he would have. Wouldn't he? Has he really been that wrapped up in himself this past year? "Throw me a bone here?" he begs, feeling oddly desperate.

The guy's face -- there's no other description for it, it goes into a carefully controlled fall. He seems to draw back in on himself, eyes shuttering.

"It's fine," he says, although it clearly isn't, and the smile he attempts only makes Clint feel worse. "We went to the same school, but so did a lot of other people. We had math and physics together, but-- that's no reason why you should remember me, I suppose. They really weren't my strongest subjects."

He shrugs, going for unconcerned, but Clint has seen that look too many times before, and he recognises the tightness in his neck, his shoulders. He knows he's anything but.

"For what it's worth, I wish I did," Clint offers quietly. He wouldn't swap his friends for the world, but he wonders what it might have been like to know this quiet, a little reserved, yet steadying guy through school. He never supposed there might be someone out there wishing they were friends with _him_ , rather than the other way around.

"I hope it's not too late to start now?" he adds, seeing the hopeful look the guy is trying to hide. "Clint Barton -- Building Science and Sustainable Design major with a minor in Architectural Technology; archer; likes, as you may have already guessed, cakes of all kinds; dislikes mushrooms -- and while we're at it, you should know that celery is the food of the devil. I'm hot for pretty much the entire cast of the Star Trek reboot movies, I hate whiskey but love beer, and I'll talk your ear off if you sit still long enough. Uh, I'm guessing you may've gotten that part, too," Clint finishes sheepishly while the guy does this not-a-grin thing that Clint wants to kiss right off his face.

Then he offers Clint his hand. The shiver that goes down Clint's spine when their skin slides together is entirely unintended, but also entirely undeniable. 

"Phil Coulson," the guy says easily, falling right into the light, teasing banter Clint had set up like it's effortless, like it's natural they should talk like this. Maybe it is. "Like I mentioned, I'm a Bakery and Pastry Arts major, and I have to tell you, that look on your face when I say it is doing all kinds of helpful things for my ego. I love coffee but hate milk; I'd clean out a plant nursery if I had the cash or the space, and I've been told I have an annoying penchant for sticking my nose where it doesn't belong. You should probably run now."

 _Not a chance,_ Clint thinks, smiling up at him through his lashes.

"Well, it's extremely nice to meet you, Phil--"

And that's the moment when everything sinks in, settles, leaves him reeling for a long moment as tiny little details, bits and pieces of his life break out of the pattern he'd thought they made and rearrange themselves in whole new ways, settling into something pretty damn distinctive.

"Coulson," Phil Coulson supplies helpfully, while Clint is, in all likelihood, gaping at him like a particularly uninspired fish -- but oh, Clint _gets it now_. Phil Coulson.

_Phil Coulson._

_Right._

After several more utterly silent seconds, Phil Coulson seems to get that something's changed, and he lets go of Clint's hand with obvious reluctance. Clint ignores the way his own fingers twitch to get it back between them in favour of staring narrow-eyed some more.

"Phil Coulson," he says, infusing every word with unmistakable realisation. 

Phil Coulson cringes, just a tiny bit -- the guy's control is balls-busting -- and takes a deep breath.

"I guess... There are probably a couple of things I ought to have mentioned," he says carefully, and if Clint's eyes narrowed any more, they'd just outright close.

"Yeah. Reckon there are," Clint says. "Seems to me I keep hearing your name a lot in connection with myself on my birthday."

"Look, can I just," Phil Coulson tries, but Clint talks right over him, because he knows now, he's got him pinned, and he's not letting him back up until he clears up a few things. 

(And if his mind trips up a little on that image, well. It can fuck off and _wait_ , he's busy right now.

(Maybe later.))

"You sent Bucky my way on my sixteenth birthday. Why?"

Phil Coulson fidgets, but only for a second. Then he seems to draw himself up, wrap that remarkable control around himself; he folds his hands on top of the table, next to the guilty, guilty cupcakes, and fixes Clint with a clear look that seems to run right through him. 

"Yes, I sent Bucky Barnes to you. I'd seen you around for-- a while, and when you weren't hanging out with Natasha Romanoff, you were--you seemed--alone. Mostly, I thought you and Barnes might find some common ground you shared."

Clint would _love_ to protest. He _would_ , except the guy has him bang to rights. 

(No, brain, stupid brain, _focus_ , this is _not_ the time.)

"And you sent Tony after us when we got busted -- I heard him say so, but it slipped right out of my head, after. Meant to look you up and say 'thanks', but-- It never seemed like the right time," he finishes lamely, furious at himself for listening to the stupid excuses that had seemed so reasonable at the time. 

Phil Coulson opens his mouth to reply, but Clint fixes him with a _look_ , and he snaps it shut again.

"And _you're_ the student council guy, the one who wrote to this place. Try and tell me I'm wrong."

Phil Coulson's keeping up his 'come at me' expression pretty well, still, but there's a tightness around his eyes that belies his apprehension.

"I'm not going to," he says simply, completely stumping Clint, who'd been prepared for--fuck knows what, actually. "I'm curious, here -- are you mad at me? Because I probably should have told you about the letter, but there was never any pressure on you to do anything. I was just -- it was an option, and you didn't seem to know about it, at least Bucky didn't-- uh." 

He pauses, scratches at his nose as he throws a quick look at Clint. "I just thought you might like to... Look, I did mention the 'sticking my nose in other people's business' thing, right? I try to tone it down, usually, but -- with you, I..." His control seems to crack, and he trails off with an explosive sigh, closing his eyes.

"I'm not sorry," he says at last, defiant but curiously resigned at the same time, like he expects Clint to, what? Punch him? Clint could, no question about it, but fuck, he doesn't want to -- not least because ruining that gorgeous face oughta be a crime. "You helped me out once, when you didn't have to, even though you obviously don't remember. You didn't even know me, but you never hesitated, and I just wanted to do _something_ \--"

His pretty mouth pinches miserably, and his hand drifts to his forehead. As if in a trance, Clint watches those long fingers ghost over a thin white scar that Clint notices for the first time, right at his hairline. The memory swamps him without warning -- a small, skinny kid with now-familiar defiant yet resigned blue eyes, blood trailing down his forehead, dripping over the bridge of his nose and down the valley of his cheek as he glared back at his attackers. 

"Oh," he whispers, watching a muscle tick in Phil's cheek while his eyes widen again, blue, so blue. "It was you," Clint adds unnecessarily, an unnamable yet overwhelming emotion making his chest thrum. 

They sit in silence, watching each other for what feels like days, their eyes asking questions they can't seem to voice.

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?" Clint whispers at last, needing to know, needing--something that makes sense to him.

Phil shrugs, self-consciously looking away. "I didn't know what to say. You seemed to value your privacy, and I-- I'm not good at making friends, as this encounter more than eloquently suggests," he finishes stiffly. He swallows visibly, looking down at his hands on the table. " _Are_ you mad?" he asks in a small voice that doesn't seem to belong to him.

"Not sure what I am," Clint muses after taking a moment to gauge his own reactions, watching Phil's fingers whiten as he clenches them together. Clint considers them, then the box where the twelve remaining cakes sit patiently, waiting on him. He thinks back to the first batch, five years and what feels like half a lifetime ago, and gives in to temptation. He picks up one of the Ps -- P for Phil, who seems too good to be real; Phil, who obviously hadn't expected anything in return for his random acts of overwhelming kindness then, and didn't seem thus inclined now, either; Phil, who'd paid enough attention to give Clint everything he'd ever needed and hadn't known to ask for.

Phil, who is probably a crazy stalker, but who has ensnared Clint well and good with nothing more than a fragile web of understanding and a kind of devotion that humbles Clint more than it freaks him out.

Besides. He's never been a huge fan of 'normal'; why the hell should be start now?

He looks at the cupcake in his hand, then at Phil, who sits there patiently awaiting judgement, yet also clearly bracing himself for an epic fallout that he's going to do nothing to try and stop. How can he even--what does he _see_ in Clint?

Well, whatever it is, Clint has also never been big on the self-sacrificing schtick. God help Phil, but Clint's gonna take him, take all that Phil's offering, and he can't see himself letting go anytime soon. 

He bites into the yummy goodness, holds Phil's eyes as he chews, knows this is _far_ from the last time they're going to talk about this, because there are things Clint needs to know, and stories he wants to share, and questions he'll want answered (like how long exactly have his damn friends known about this, and why not _one_ of them had thought to, here's an idea, _clue him in_ ). For now, Clint eats his cake and lets himself bask in a world that, for this single moment in time, makes perfect sense.

"If I find you creeping into my bedroom just to watch me sleep, we're gonna have to have a talk," he says when he's done, striving like hell to keep his voice calm and even and as matter-of-fact as he can, rather than letting it break from excitement like it wants to. It's worth the effort to see Phil blink, still flushed, and look blindsided, and open his mouth only for no sound to come out.

Clint can only take it for a few moments. At the first hint of a smile on Phil's face, his cracks wide open, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt. _Hot damn_ , it feels good.

"Weirdest fucking courtship I've ever heard of," he mutters, but reaches for Phil's hands, worms his fingers between Phil's, keeps at it until they loosen their grip and turn to let him in. The cautious happiness infusing Phil's face is a sight to behold, instantly addictive. It only takes that tiny moment for Clint to know he's going to want to put that expression there over and over and over again. 

"Thanks," he whispers, and he means it so much, _for_ so much, that he almost can't swallow around the lump of emotion in his throat. 

Phil's eyes soften in a way that turns Clint's insides to putty. 

"Thank you," Phil returns, just as quietly; the look in his eyes is just-- It ought to frighten Clint to be the subject of it, but it only feels like being wrapped in the warmest, tightest hug.

He rather thinks this birthday is his favourite of all.

 

**+1. 25**

"Quarter of a century, Barton, how does it feel to be so old?" Bucky crows in his ear as Clint unlocks the door of his apartment and shuffles gratefully inside, kicking it shut and falling back against it in relief. 

"Fuck off, Barnes," he mutters, dropping his bulging bag by the door and following his curious nose to the kitchen. "Just because you're nine months younger than me does not give you an excuse to mock. Asshole," he grumbles as he presses himself full-length against Phl's back at the kitchen counter, hooking his chin over Phil's shoulder so he can watch Phil's gorgeous hands as they work a lump of dough into submission. 

Barnes is saying something else, but Clint isn't really paying attention anymore, too focused on nosing along Phil's neck and murmuring 'Hi,' into his skin.

"Earth to Barton," Bucky yells. Clint rolls his eyes. "You're home, aren't you, I've lost you to Coulson. Damn it, pal, five minutes to talk to my friend, is that too much to ask for?"

"Oh, stop your whining," Clint says, heaving a put-upon sigh as Phil's shoulders shake. "You'll see me on Saturday for the party. You're staying over, right?"

"Only if your spare room is on the other side of the apartment from yours," Bucky snarks. 

Clint grunts in affront. "You are such a fucking hypocrite, Barnes. I had to sleep next door to you and Steve when you came back from tour early. I'm still scarred, I hope you know that."

"That was different," Bucky says primly, and Clint has no compunctions about laughing very loudly in his ear.

"See you Saturday, dickhead," he says, disconnecting the call over Bucky's indignant "Fuckface!" and tossing his phone over the back of the sofa -- where, no doubt, a search party to find it and shut it off will ensue the next time it rings. Clint has turned out to be, to his neverending shock, a popular guy.

Then, at last, his hands are free to worm under Phil's sinfully soft sweater while he kisses the back of his neck. 

"Hey, baby, whatcha making me?" he wheedles, inhaling the warm, sweet scent of Phil when he's baking delicious treats.

"It's a surprise," Phil says, but turns far enough sideways that Clint can kiss him good and thorough. 

"Mmmm. I'd say 'you didn't have to', but that would be such a filthy lie." 

It's Phil's turn to roll his eyes. "It hasn't taken me the whole of the past six years to work that one out," he deadpans. 

Clint's chest feels tight and full at the same time. They've come a long way, but they're still here, still as wrapped up in each other as day one. 

He swipes a finger through the bowl of cream that sits nearby, waiting its turn, and then swipes something just as sweet off Phil's lips. 

"Going for a shower," he says, smirking at the slightly dazed look he loves putting on Phil's face. "And then I'm going to unwrap my present."

"It won't be ready yet," Phil protests, but Clint just smiles to himself and turns to head into their bedroom. 

Later, after dinner and the treat Phil is carefully preparing just for him, he'll make sure to let Phil know he's already given Clint the best present he could ever wish for.


End file.
